Schrödinger's Dog

by Martin Dumont

  Originally published in French as Le chien de Schrödinger in 2018 by Éditions Delcourt, Paris.

  Copyright © Éditions Delcourt, 2018

  English translation copyright © Other Press, 2020

  Production editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

  Text designer: Jennifer Daddio / Bookmark Design & Media Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  For information write to Other Press LLC, 267 Fifth Avenue, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10016.

  Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Names: Dumont, Martin, 1988- author. | Cullen, John, 1942- translator.

  Title: Schrödinger’s dog / Martin Dumont; translated from the French by John Cullen.

  Other titles: Chien de Schrödinger. English

  Description: New York : Other Press, [2020] | “Originally published in French as Le chien de Schrödinger in 2018 by Éditions Delcourt, Paris”—Title page verso.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019025749 (print) | LCCN 2019025750 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635429985 (paperback; alk. paper) | ISBN 9781892746290 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PQ2704.U58 C4813 2020 (print) | LCC PQ2704.U58 (ebook) | DDC 843/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025749

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025750

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook ISBN 9781892746290

  v5.4

  a

  TO MY MOTHER

  “Some renowned philosophers—

  such as Schopenhauer—have declared

  that our world is exceedingly ill-made and unhappy,

  and others—such as Leibniz—

  have found it to be

  the best of all possible worlds.”

  —ERWIN SCHRÖDINGER

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  1

  There’s someone on the other side of the wall.

  I don’t think I was asleep. Dozing a little, maybe. I’m lying on my back, I haven’t opened my eyes.

  The floorboards creak, someone’s slowly approaching the bedroom. I’m not sure. Maybe I’m still dreaming.

  The footsteps move away toward the kitchen. Seconds drag by, and now I no longer hear the slightest sound.

  Suppose it wasn’t Pierre?

  It’s possible, after all; it could have been a burglar. A skillful, well-trained sort of fellow—I didn’t notice anything that sounded like an entry. He may have picked the lock and then gently opened the door.

  It’s easy to verify. I can just get up and go to see. I could even satisfy my curiosity by calling out; Pierre will answer if he hears me. The thief, on the other hand, will flee the scene. In either case, I resolve the doubt.

  If I want to know, all I have to do is act.

  So why am I staying put?

  It’s strange, this impression I have: the feeling that I would spoil everything. Because there’s an equilibrium to consider. At bottom, it’s almost a game: someone’s walking around on the other side of the wall; it’s not Pierre, it’s not a burglar; it’s as if they were superimposed. Yes, that’s it. As long as I don’t make sure, it’s a little bit of both.

  2

  In the end, I sat up. My reflections seemed stupid. Maybe the idea of a burglar had ended up worrying me—I don’t know. Let’s just say that I wanted to see my son.

  I got out of bed and checked the clock. I’d hardly slept. I sighed, thinking I’d pay for that at the end of the night.

  As I was leaving the bedroom, I saw Pierre. He was sitting outside on the balcony. He’d put some cookies and a glass of milk on the little iron table.

  Pierre is twenty and never misses an opportunity to snack. When I point this out to him, he shrugs and smiles.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen—I can’t stand milk. I’ve always liked cookies, but the things he eats are too sweet for me. By the time I joined him, he’d already finished half the packet.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He smiled at me with a cookie in his mouth and then asked me how my day had gone.

  In the course of the morning, I’d picked up several fares at the airport, all of them bound for the center of town. Most of my customers had never detached themselves from their phones; the others had slept with their heads against the window. I’m no longer surprised to hear them start snoring as soon as they’ve settled into the back seat. In the early afternoon, I came home and went to bed.

  None of that was very interesting, so I simply answered “Fine” and asked him the same question.

  * * *

  —

  Pierre’s a third-year biology student. He gave me a detailed description of his day. After lunch, he’d gone to his drama club. Not that he likes the theater, exactly, because Pierre doesn’t ever attend plays; he prefers to be one of the performers. He’s been that way since he was little.

  He’d spent the afternoon with the club. I don’t understand why he never seems to have classes. Sometimes I ask him for an explanation, but he gets his back up and says I’ve never been to a university. “You can’t understand.” His troupe is preparing a new production. “An original work,” he specifies. He’s the author.

  Pierre really likes to write. That’s been the case for longer than I can remember. When he was younger, he used to fill up entire notebooks.

  He talks to me about his play and I nod, because he’s told me the plot about ten times already. His eyes shine while he recites the scenes. Rebellion, friendship, fear, and justice. Also love. His concoction contains a little of everything.

  “You see, Dad? You should read it!”

  I have no excuse. He printed out the text for me last month. I promised to read it, and it’s been lying on my night table ever since.

  He describes the rehearsals. He gesture
s dramatically, accompanying himself with exaggerated movements. He laughs a little, but his face hardens when he talks about the leading actors—a couple, if I’ve understood him right.

  “The guy—he’s just out of his depth.”

  The girl, however: a monster talent. He can already imagine her on the screen. I suppose she must be pretty; long hair, angelic smile, good student. My Pierrot always falls in love with the girls at the top of his class.

  I figure he’ll go on about her for a while, but I’m wrong: in a flash, he returns to his critique of the leading man. This time, it’s more scathing. His diction’s bad, his acting grotesque. And he’s got a big head to boot.

  “He thinks he’s a star!”

  I can’t help smiling. Pierre blushes. He says, “Yeah, right, I admit it. I’m jealous.” And he starts laughing.

  After that, he clears the table. His cheeks seem a little gaunt. It’s as though he’s gotten tired all of a sudden, and slightly feverish. When I ask, he says no, everything’s fine. “It’s almost the weekend. It’s normal to be a bit exhausted.” I don’t insist.

  * * *

  —

  It’s Thursday, so he’s going out. I don’t even ask where he’s headed. It’s the same thing every week—I’ve grown used to it.

  I’ll go on duty at ten tonight. In the meantime, James Bond is on TV. One of the films with Roger Moore. The human zucchini. Pierre laughs when I say that.

  I heat up two slices of quiche, but he won’t take one. He’ll stop and get a sandwich on the way. He kisses me and puts on his jacket. “I’ll be home late, maybe even after you.” I’m not supposed to worry.

  When the door bangs shut, I freeze for a few seconds. In the kitchen, the quiche is ogling me through the glass door of the oven. Ah well. I’ll eat both slices.

  3

  I think I was really in love with Lucille. Put like that, it sounds weird. The first years were great. It’s hard to understand how it could all have gone so wrong.

  When I met her, she already had her humanitarian side. She was a member of several associations, she donated a lot of money. To fight hunger, war, AIDS. There was also that thing with the panda.

  It irritated me to see their self-satisfied faces when they persuaded her to sign up. Automatic withdrawal, fifteen euros a month: the orphans thank you. I never liked the guys who did that sort of work. Cultivators of guilt: “Look me in the eyes when I talk about poverty and squalor.” They targeted Lucille because she was weak. You didn’t have to observe her for very long to figure that out. Watch her eyes for a minute, maybe less. A sadness heavy enough to split concrete would come back at you like a boomerang.

  Me, I wanted to take her in my arms, but not those boys, not them: real vultures. Without an ounce of shame. They circled around her, salivating. “You see that one, the one lagging behind a little? There could be a way to get something out of her.”

  Well, all right, maybe that’s a caricature. I used to laugh at Lucille, but affectionately. I’d scold her for being naive, because, after all, I thought it was pretentious to want to change the world. But I always let her go ahead and try. She loved doing that, and it’s a passion like any other.

  I didn’t see the moment when she went over the edge. With hindsight, I tell myself that I might have been able to do something. At least in the beginning, when she began to escape me. But I had to work too much, and the kid, even when he was two, still took up an incredible amount of space and time. Besides, the difference wasn’t all that noticeable. I mean, she’d always been that way. Fragile, too sensitive. Not sad, no, but melancholy. Yes, there’s a word I like a lot. Melancholy.

  Her doctors didn’t say it like that. “A disease,” they said. It had a name I didn’t want to remember. A problem inside the head, something ultimately invisible. It’s frustrating, because it’s so hard to imagine.

  Of course, her penchant for misery hadn’t escaped my notice. Woe always came upon her in phases, marked by long periods of sighing. Nevertheless, I fell in love with her, because you can’t control everything. Maybe I liked being able to help her.

  When she was sinking into depression, I played the clown. Sometimes she’d smile.

  On the days when all went well, there was such joy—it’s impossible to explain. I believe you have to go through pain before you can really enjoy the good times. Pierre’s birth had made her so happy. It was such a beautiful success. Concrete proof that what we had could work.

  In fact, I always thought we’d make it through. Maybe I still do. It wasn’t a big problem. It made life a roller-coaster, but life’s often like that. When you hit bottom, you brace yourself and push off to climb back up. I found out a whole lot of things by suffering. Misery has its place; if it batters you, you can leave it a little room.

  When Lucille started spending time with her group, I didn’t get it at first. I didn’t see the difference. Her groups, her associations, those all seemed to me to be more or less the same old story. Pierre was little, and I thought she needed some freedom. I was confident we’d make yet another comeback.

  I was wrong.

  * * *

  —

  When she stopped eating fish, I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t like meat. Then came eggs, milk, honey. She would talk about nature with spellbound eyes. At the time, she used to say she’d been a dove in a former life. I don’t think she believed that, but she put her heart into it. In any case, it remained a circus, and it made me laugh a lot. One day when she was biting into a tomato, I told her she might be chowing down on my father. The fruit caught me right in the face.

  So that was how she got inside her circle. From that angle, I mean. But it wasn’t just a vegetable affair. There was a guy. He said his name was Yalta. A lot of it revolved around him. I soon figured out why they didn’t eat anything, considering what they were treating themselves to…though I never knew what it was. Something mind-blowing, without a doubt.

  My Lucille, in the underworld. I can see her now: easy meat. She dove in head first, and by the time I realized it, it was too late. All the same, I got her out of the fix she was in, because you can’t act like a total idiot. I remember Yalta when my fist landed on his nose. He cried like a child. After a stay in the clinic, Lucille came back home. I did all I could, but I’d already lost her.

  4

  I drove out of the parking lot early. I didn’t turn on the radio right away. First I had to decide.

  Always the same questions. Run out to the airport? With all the arriving flights, I’m sure to pick up some fares. Of course, I have to get in line and wait, which I always find unbearable. Going out there guarantees an unpleasant evening. But in the end, the pay is adequate, and that often makes all the difference.

  I could also cruise for fares in the city center. It’s double or nothing. On good nights, I do really well, but the demand is too unpredictable. Sometimes the city’s deserted and I drive around for hours. I’ve always secretly wondered: is there someone who decides for everyone else? “Tonight, boys and girls, we’re staying home.” And why does the decider always forget to inform us?

  The best idea, no doubt, would be to trawl around the bars. I can very easily be satisfied with that. A little later in the night, I’ll even wait outside the doors of some of the clubs. It’s risky—passengers have vomited on my nice leather seats—but it brings in a little cash. And besides, young people have some good qualities. They talk, they laugh. They’re never too drunk to make conversation. And that’s always more pleasant than the guy who spends the whole ride hanging on his phone.

  I haven’t always done this. Cab-driving, I mean. When I first got here, I hung around the markets. At the time, there was work to be had in the stalls. I made a living unloading merchandise. You had to get there very early to make sure you got hired. Sometimes, weather permitting, I’d sleep out there. I would bring along a sleeping bag and lie down in a covered
area of the market. It wasn’t so unpleasant; there were often other young guys with me.

  That was how I met François. A super person, always friendly and kind. He’d bring along thermoses of coffee and share them with me. At night, we watched over each other so we wouldn’t get robbed. We’d take turns sleeping. In the morning, the first one who spotted the stallholders would wake the other.

  As time passes, people end up trusting you. Two or three times, I filled in for the vendors. It was hard, and I don’t think I was any good. Finally, I put some money aside and got a driver’s permit, because doing that would open doors for me. I became a deliveryman; it was nice, I liked being at the wheel, but in the end I quit that job too. I couldn’t stand my boss. The kind of guy who yells nonstop and sticks you with impossible schedules. I’ve never been one to let people yell at me.

  I learned that some taxi drivers were selling their licenses. François found out all about it, and we discussed the opportunity. He’d already borrowed enough money to start as soon as possible. I was tempted, and the plates weren’t all that expensive. There wouldn’t be anyone giving me orders. I let a week go by, and then I took the plunge.

  I can still remember the day I got my license. I was so proud. When they handed it over to me, I immediately thought of Pierre. I couldn’t wait to show it to him. He was little, he’d just turned four. During the day, I’d leave him with Madame Alves, an enormous Portuguese babysitter who took in as many as five children at a time. I would pass by to pick him up around six o’clock, at the end of my delivery shift. That evening, I was terribly late. I’d waited a long time to pick up the metal tag, and then I’d had to have it attached.

  Night had already fallen when I rang the doorbell at Madame Alves’s house. She opened the door, and the first thing I saw was the relief on her face. I didn’t give her time to bawl me out. I seized her hand and covered it with kisses. “Forgive me, forgive me, Madame.” I kept repeating that, and she didn’t know how to react. Then I saw that Pierre was right behind her. I threw myself on him. His eyes were red—he must have cried a lot. I lifted him up and carried him out to the street. As I ran along the sidewalk, I could feel his little hands tightly clutching my neck. When we got to the car, I put him down and knelt beside him.